


Dopplered

by Naughty_Yorick



Series: The Doppler Effect [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Confessions, Dopplers, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flirting, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Out In Public, Mistaken Identity, Whump, because of the mistaken identities, just...lots of making out really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:53:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22791283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: "If you’re truly going to pretend that you’re not some irresistibly muscled sex god sent to taunt the rest of us with how obscenely attractive you are then I just don’t know what to say, Geralt,” he says with an exaggerated shrug, before shoving what he hopes is a potato in his mouth to stop himself from saying anything else.When Geralt returns from an easy contract, Jaskier can't help but notice that there's something a little different about the witcher - specifically, how responsive he's suddenly become to his flirting. A companion piece for The Doppler Effect.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Doppler Effect [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638550
Comments: 63
Kudos: 742
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a re-telling of my previous fic, [The Doppler Effect](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22389655/chapters/53492275), from Jaskier's point of view. You don't necessarily need to have read The Doppler Effect to understand this fic (at least, I hope not), but please check it out if you want to see both sides of this particular encounter! (It's from Geralt's POV and is very exciting and voyeuristic, you'll love it)
> 
> I've tagged this as dubcon because - well - it technically is. Everyone is consenting but what does consent mean when the person you're making out with is wearing a stolen face? Dopplers make for confusing tagging.

“How am I supposed to spread the good word of the great White Wolf if I don’t accompany you on hunts, Geralt?”

Jaskier trots after Geralt, trying to keep up with the witcher’s long strides.

“It’s _drowners,_ Jaskier. How many drowners have you watched me kill?”

“Well I hardly keep count, do I?” 

“How many?”

Jaskier sighs. “…lots,” he admits.

“Exactly. There’s no song here, bard. Just six drowners in a stinking swamp in the middle of the night. You won’t even be able to see what’s happening out there.”

“But—”

Geralt stops, spins, and thrusts their bags into Jaskier’s arms - both of their packs, and the saddlebags. For Geralt, the weight is nothing at all, but Jaskier staggers under them, nearly dropping the saddlebags. Geralt rolls his eyes at him, then starts to walk away again.

“Find rooms.” He calls over his shoulder, “One with a bath. Find a tavern. I want food by the time I’m back.”

“Geralt, I really must—”

Geralt scowls at him over his shoulder, and Jaskier falls silent. _Fine._ He rearranges their things, hoisting a saddlebag over each shoulder, and trudges down the road towards the centre of the village, feeling like a pack mule. The inn is easy enough to find, and the owner is an affable older woman who greets him with a cheery smile as he enters and throws one of the heavy saddle bags on the front desk with a huff.

“Two rooms, please,” he says, rearranging the other packs slung around his shoulders to find his coin, “or two beds. Whichever, really.”

The woman furrows her brow, thinking, then reaches under the desk to pull out an enormous leather ledger. She starts to flick through the pages, running her finger down the lines of neat handwriting.

“Oh, I _am_ sorry,” she says, finally reaching the final page, “but we’ve only one room left, my love. One room, one bed.”

 _Oh, no,_ thinks Jaskier, _how terrible. How tragic. What a shame._ He’s good at acting – he’s a _bard,_ after all – so he blinks at her like a confused traveller.

“Oh, no, are you sure?” He says, doing his best to appear distressed.

“Quite sure, dear. Do you want the room anyway?”

He pretends to think on her offer. “Ah, well – it _is_ an inconvenience, of course.”

She nods.

“But, gods, a roof over my head sounds a lot better than another night in the woods. We’ll take it. How much?”

“Five crowns for the night, six if you’re wanting a bath.”

He pulls out his little bag of coins and starts to look through the coppers, counting them out on the desk. 

“Six it is, then. We’ll need a bath brought up: my companion was very specific about that.”

She takes the coins and stashes them in a pocket before bustling in the drawers beneath the desk, looking for the key. “You here with that witch fella?” She asks, casually.

“Witch- _er,"_ Jaskier corrects her, “but yes, I am. I’m his…” there’s only a brief pause. “...bard.”

“Right you are. Here we go!” She grabs the key from the dark recess of a drawer and leads him upstairs. The inn is small and stuffy with thick, dust-heavy cobwebs hanging from the corners of the ceiling. 

“...poor luck, it really is,” the woman is saying as she leads the way, Jaskier only half-listening, “We’re not often this busy, you know.”

“Hmm,” says Jaskier, nervously eyeing a rather large spider that’s taken up residence in one of the windows on the way up the stairs. It seems to eye him back, and he hurries to catch up with the woman. She shows him into the room with a smile.

“I hope it’s to your liking, master bard.”

“It’s…” He looks at the dust, at the bed tucked into the corner with its grubby sheets, at the charitable addition of a bunch of dead flowers in an old vase resting on the single table, “… lovely.” 

“You said you’d be wanting the bath?”

“Yes! Yes, we will. You know how monster hunting gets…” he looks at her face. She clearly does not know how monster hunting gets. “Messy business. Very messy.”

“I’ll have one brought up and filled. What time will you be wanting it?”

Jaskier pauses. How long could it take to dispatch six drowners? Not long, he thinks. A fairly messy job – swamp dwellers are always more unpleasant than the beasts you find in the forest or plains – if quick. But Geralt will probably want food more than a bath.

“In a couple of hours, perhaps?” He says, “That gives us time to eat.”

“Right you are, then. I’ll have one waiting for you when you’re back.”

She gives him a genuine smile, and Jaskier presses a coin into her hand as she leaves the room.

“Thank you, Master Bard.”

He waves away her thanks with a smile. “It’s nothing.”

“And again, I’m very sorry about the sleeping arrangements.”

Jaskier shrugs. “Oh, we’ve had worse. Sleeping on the floor is better than sleeping on the dirt.”

She gives him an amenable smile and shuts the door behind her. Jaskier sighs, drooping his shoulders, and throws the bags onto the bed. He can sort through them later, he thinks, as he disentangles the bedroll from the pile and chucks it onto the floor. It’s good to keep up appearances, he knows – both for the innkeeper and for his own peace of mind. He grabs his bag from the heap on the bed and places it next to the bedroll for good measure.

He knows full well that he won’t _really_ be sleeping down there, but it’s good to at least put up a little resistance. All it takes is a flippant, self-depreciating line about being happy to sleep on the floor and a brief but harmless argument, and then he can enjoy a long night’s sleep spent comfortably wrapped around – 

Well. 

There’s a basin in the far corner of the room full of what he’s hoping is fresh water. He splashes it on his face, scrubbing away the dust and little flecks of mud he’s picked up from travelling. He tries to make the most of these little domesticities while he can – they’ll back to sleeping on the dirt tomorrow. Once he’s reasonably clean, his cheeks a little red where he’s rubbed at them, he turns to survey the room.

Truly, it isn’t _terrible._ There’s a small, slightly cracked window in one wall and the bed – while clearly very old – should fit the both of them. He appreciates the homey touch of the vase, even if the flowers are long-since dead. There’s even a fire happily crackling away in the hearth, filling the room with a comforting warmth. 

His lute is still slung to his back, for once locked away in its case. He pulls it off and lifts the lid, picking up the instrument like it’s made of glass. He gives it a quick once-over, checking for travel damage, then pulls the strap over his head, holding it, feeling the weight of it in his hands. He likes to hold it like this even when he isn’t playing, just to feel it in his arms and the familiar lines of the strings beneath his fingertips. He strums a few chords, letting the sound vibrate up his arms.

Outside, the sun has truly set. The thick clouds blanketing the sky make it already darker than would be usual for this time, smothering any light from the moon and carrying with them the promise of rain for later. The tavern will be busy, tonight. Jaskier smiles to himself. He pats his pocket, making sure his coin purse is still safely stashed away, swings the lute onto his back and heads out.

Jaskier grins out across his meagre audience to a smattering of applause. It certainly isn’t the worst reaction he’s ever gotten, but it’s hardly _enthusiastic._ A few people in the tavern toss him coins – fewer people than he would be happy with – but the barman seems pleased, and Jaskier hopes he’ll keep his word: two meals, with drinks, in exchange for a few songs. The terrorised villagers need a little levity, that much is clear. 

He grabs his nearly empty cup from the bar, leans against a support beam in the middle of the room and idly plucks at strings as he decides what to play next. He downs the final dregs of his beer – a rather optimistic description, he thinks, as it’s certainly more water than ale. At least Geralt won’t be able to chastise him for getting drunk in his absence. 

The door to the tavern opens, and there’s a sudden breeze followed by a hasty lull in chatter, the patrons mumbling into whispers.

“Geralt!” He calls his name as he turns around, arms outstretched. He doesn’t even need to look at him to know the witcher has returned: there’s no other person who’s entrance into a tavern can have such an immediate effect.

Geralt looks startled, for a moment; like he hadn’t been expecting to see Jaskier standing there. The look quickly passes as he pushes his way into the room with a low, toneless _hum._ He stalks past Jaskier, making a beeline for the alderman who’d hired him earlier that day, seated at a table near the far window. Jaskier follows him.

“Oh, yes, lovely to see you too Geralt,” he says, rolling his eyes, “I’ve been fine, just doing all your busywork while you swan around murdering beasties and splashing around in puddles. Why, yes, thank you for noticing, this _is_ a new doublet! I agree, it _does_ make me look exceptionally handso—”

Geralt turns and glares at him.

Jaskier looks him up and down. “You're very... clean.” The glare deepens, and Jaskier continues. “I know how much you like to get stuck in. I was expecting more in the realm of guts and gore.”

“Hmm.”

He turns back towards the alderman. “Consider your drowner problem taken care of.”

The man looks nervous – a natural reaction to being stared down by a witcher, Jaskier thinks.

“Ah, I… good, good.” He swallows. “No trouble?”

“None at all. My pay?”

The man pulls a small leather pouch from his pocket and hands it over. His fingers are trembling a little. As Geralt shoves the pouch into his pocket, the villager catches Jaskier’s eye. He looks downright terrified now, and immediately looks away, peering down into his beer.

Before Jaskier can investigate further, Geralt is stomping away again. He rushes after, following behind him as he makes his way to a table in the corner of the room.

“Anyway!” He chirrups happily as they sit down, “You’ll be pleased to know I’ve found us, ah… suitable sleeping arrangements at the inn down the road, as _well_ as food and beer, for the small price of a few of my songs.” He peers at Geralt’s typically unreadable face. _"Probably_ pleased. Never can tell.” He calls to the landlord, who’s absentmindedly wiping down the bar with a rag. “Two ales, please!” He says with a wave, “and food!”

A barmaid quickly hurries over, two full pints gripped in her hands. As she places them on the wooden table, it wobbles slightly, spilling beer over the already sticky surface. Jaskier can’t help but notice the way she looks at Geralt as she puts them down, and the way Geralt completely ignores her, grabbing one of the cups.

Jaskier does likewise and sips at the drink – the watery beer doesn’t taste so bad, he thinks, once one’s grown used to it, but the little stool he’s sat on suffers from uneven legs and rocks unpleasantly beneath him. He’s getting sick of these little towns and misses the comfort of the big cities. Geralt, he knows, prefers to be out of the way, which means he’s stuck in backwater villages and two-horse towns for the foreseeable future.

He takes another, deeper sip. It really isn’t that awful. 

He looks up. Geralt is staring at him. That look of confusion is back – like he’s trying to figure him out.

“…So,” says Jaskier, feeling exposed under his gaze. “Drowners?”

Geralt blinks and finally looks away. “Hmm. Drowners.”

Jaskier places a hand over his heart with a dramatic gasp. “Stop, Geralt, it sounds truly _terrifying._ I’m not sure I could bear to hear much more.”

To his surprise, the witcher smiles. It’s a _real_ smile, although for Geralt that just means the corners of his lips twitching upwards. Jaskier’s stomach tightens.

“Six dead drowners. Even you can’t squeeze a song out of that.”

“Perhaps with a little embellishment… people love a good story, you know.”

“Like the one about the bard who drowned in swamp shit because he was desperate to find inspiration for his new song?”

Jaskier’s about to bite back, but the idea sticks in his mind. He presses his lips to the rim of his cup, thoughtfully.

“You know, Geralt, that’s actually an intriguing premise. A tragicomedy about the untimely death of a talented, yet foolish man, an unfortunate soul who met his death too soon…”

Geralt snorts. “You should be giving me a cut of your takings.”

“Hah! What better payment is there than _reputation,_ Geralt? What better reward than fame?”

“Money.”

“Oh, it’s all about _money_ with you.”

“No; it’s about being able to afford food.”

Jaskier waves an impatient hand. As if on cue, the barmaid returns with two steaming bowls of stew, miscellaneous vegetables and unidentifiable hunks of meat floating in them. Jaskier thanks the barmaid, who ignores him entirely as she gives another flushed glance at Geralt, then gestures at the food.

“See? Paid for with _my_ singing.”

“I think I’ll reserve judgement on how much your singing is worth until _after_ I’ve eaten this.” Geralt peers at the stew with a frown. The barmaid is still hovering, anxiously. He scowls up at her. She makes a little squeaking sound and quickly rushes off, blushing furiously.

“Oh, be _nice,_ Geralt,” says Jaskier, watching the departing girl. “I know your type is, what, unattainably beautiful and terrifying? But it’s not _her_ fault you’re so, you know…” he twirls his hand in the air in Geralt’s direction, who lowers his spoon to stare at him.

“I’m so _what?"_

Jaskier swallows. “If you’re _truly_ going to pretend that you’re not some irresistibly muscled sex god sent to taunt the rest of us with how obscenely attractive you are then I just don’t know what to say, Geralt,” he says with an exaggerated shrug, before shoving what he hopes is a potato in his mouth to stop himself from saying anything else.

Thankfully, Geralt doesn’t respond – just looks at him, eyes slightly narrowed – before going back to his own food. Jaskier internally scolds himself for being so candid. Was that too much? It was too much, surely. Geralt _must_ know the effect he has on those around him. Not all of the glances that get thrown his way are through fear, not all of the muttering and whispers are about how ferocious and fearsome he is. It’s true, perhaps, that _villagers_ tend to find him more frightening than fuckable, but in towns, in cities? Around nobles and mages? The man’s like a _magnet._ No wonder poor, inexperienced barmaids stare at him like he’s dropped out of the sky. They’re likely to never see another man like him.

It sounded, he hoped, like comedic exaggeration. Simple hyperbole. It’s not, of course; but Geralt doesn’t need to know that. Jaskier doesn’t know how the witcher would respond if he knew the true _intentions_ of his feelings towards him, but he doubts it would be good. 

He continues to poke listlessly at the strew, chewing on the greyish meat. He sighs, looks up, and realises that Geralt is watching him again. His stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with the questionable food. The look of curiosity is gone, and now Geralt’s expression is stoic, unreadable – but he’s undoubtedly staring. Staring at him. The urge to turn around and look over his shoulder to see if there’s someone standing behind him is unbearable. He sits up a little straighter, letting the spoon fall back into the broth.

“What?”

Geralt blinks. “What?”

“You were…” it sounds foolish, saying it out loud, “...staring at me.”

“Was I?”

“Yes, you were.” There’s a long pause. Geralt doesn’t say anything. Finally, Jaskier relents. “Well?”

“Well what?”

Jaskier sighs dramatically and drains the last of his pint. It’s hopeless trying to have a reasonable conversation with him when he’s being like this.

“It’s your round, you know,” he says, pointedly motioning to the empty mug.

“I thought these were free. Paid for with your singing?”

“My art has just as much value as your coin, Geralt. True, this meal didn’t cost me a crown… but I paid handsomely, none-the-less. My worth is not determined by the tip of a sword...” he nods over Geralt’s shoulder at the blades slung on his back, “...but by the tip of my _tongue."_

Geralt rolls his eyes with a derisive snort but stands anyway, and heads towards the bar. Jaskier watches as he leaves, watches the way the crowd – already pressed close together – disperses around him to let him pass. It’s probably because they’re all fucking terrified of him, Jaskier knows, but it feels good to watch anyway. Geralt possesses a raw kind of power that Jaskier knows he’ll never have himself – doesn’t _want_ himself – but it’s exciting, and interesting, and more than a little comforting to have a man like that on your side when locals tend distrust a bard with fancy clothes, fluttering words and a penchant for dabbling with wives and daughters. And sons. And husbands.

Not that there’s been any _dabbling_ in some time. 

He stares at Geralt’s back. At his broad shoulders, the swords still strapped to him. He lets his gaze slip lazily down, unconsciously nibbling at the inside of his lip.

No. There’s been a distinct lack of… _dabbling._ It all feels rather hollow, of late. Like being given a meal of old, hard bread when there’s a sumptuous feast just inches away. It’s a rather poetic way to look at it, he thinks, and he’s actually been half-composing a song on the matter, snippets of disconnected lyrics floating through his mind when he’s trudging along the road at Geralt’s side or curled in a bedroll on the damp ground, failing to fall asleep.

It’s certainly got all the makings of a bawdy, drunken tune; something about a mouthful of salted sausage. 

He’s been struggling, though, to find the right direction for the song. The composition keeps changing as he pours over the words, as his fingers pluck uselessly at his lute. What _should_ by all rights be a toe-curling song about unrequited lust keeps transforming into something far more sensitive and sentimental. 

It’s a song about… about _sausages,_ for fucks sake. No point getting bleary-eyed over it. He just needs to stop thinking about it and get it out of his head once and for all. 

He takes a quick sideways glance towards the bar and spots Geralt in conversation with a pretty girl he recognises as one of the landlord’s many daughters. Usually, he’d be bustling over there, taking her hand, greeting her with some quip about saving her from the terrifying witcher. He’d get himself caught up in the game, in the _chase._

She grins at Geralt, her nose crinkling as she does, and Jaskier feels a hot, unpleasant stab of jealousy.

He begins to tap his fingers mindlessly on the slightly sticky table top, letting the repetitive noise ground him. His leg has begun to bounce – a nervous habit he’s been afflicted with for as long as he can remember. He needs to _not_ think about this right now. 

He turns just in time to see Geralt approaching the table, fresh ale in his hands. 

_Oh, Melitele save me,_ he thinks. _He’s just unfair._

He calls to him as he approaches, then immediately chastises himself for behaving like an idiot. _He knows you’re here; you fool._ Geralt smiles – tight lipped but genuine – and places Jaskier’s drink in front of him before taking the seat opposite, his back against the wall.

“So,” says Jaskier, at a loss for anything else to say. He feels the weight of his lute on his back, and smiles across the table. “Shall we?” He reaches for the instrument, eyes sparkling, “ _When a humble b—”_

“The girl at the bar was asking after you.”

Jaskier stammers into silence, his fingers freezing halfway towards the instrument. Geralt stares at him, one eyebrow raised. He looks _cheeky._

Truthfully, Geralt has helped him get laid more than once, and there’s no reason why the witcher wouldn’t consider it doing him a favour if he does so again. Jaskier glances back towards the girl, who’s now staring at them.

“Ah…” he begins, trying to find the right words to say that won’t make him seem like he’s lost his mind. _No thank you, Geralt, I’ve actually taken a temporary vow of chastity until I can get over my unfortunate infatuation with a certain white-haired, yellow-eyed monster hunter. Incidentally did I tell you we’re sharing a bed tonight?_ “Well, I’m… that is to say, I’m not—” 

Geralt peers to look at the girl too, who spots his gaze and quickly turns away. “I told her you weren’t interested,” he says, simply.

_"What?"_

"What? _Are_ you interested?”

“I, _well_ —” Jaskier stutters, trying to form a response.

“It’s been weeks since I’ve had to protect you from an angry spouse. Longer. I thought perhaps it was just shitty luck, then I remembered who you are. So…” he shrugs, taking another drink instead of finishing that sentence.

Jaskier can feel himself starting to blush. “So _what?"_ He demands.

“Perhaps you’ve decided to become celibate. You wouldn’t be the first artist to choose a life of piety. I’ve met dozens of musicians labouring under the false impression their talent comes from their cock.”

“I… _well!_ I can tell you _right now_ that is certainly _not_ the case. I’m just…” He pauses, looking for the right words, and Geralt raises his eyebrows at him. “…not interested. At the moment.”

Geralt takes a long drink. “Hmm.” He clearly doesn’t believe him.

Jaskier feels suddenly emboldened, fuelled by embarrassment. “Well why don’t _you_ go after her, _hmm?_ Or is it like I said: she isn’t your _type?"_

“And what _was_ my type, again?”

He frowns, bitterly. “Unattainably beautiful and terrifying. Some of us have to settle for merely being extremely handsome and extraordinarily talented. We can’t _all_ be magic-wielding sexpots.” 

“Hmm.”

“Anyway. I’ve decided to raise my standards, you’ll be happy to know.”

“Countesses and sons of Barons were _low_ standards?”

He rolls his eyes at him. “Psh, Geralt, you know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“I know you get all _your_ thrills from monster hunting, Geralt, so you wouldn’t understand: but it’s all feeling rather _stale,_ of late. Perhaps one can’t find emotional fulfilment at the foot of a bed.”

“And I’m sure you’ve already sought it on the bedroom rug, in the hayloft, in the woods behind a tavern…”

“Geralt!”

“No? My mistake. Must have been some other extremely talented and extraordinarily handsome bard I had to pull an angry father off of in that barn.” 

Jaskier nearly chokes. “I think you’ll _find,"_ he manages, feeling himself blush, “that it’s extremely _handsome_ and extraordinarily _talented."_

“Of course.” He drinks. “Not that it matters either way, if you’re intending to _raise your standards."_ He peers at Jaskier for a moment, then seems to come to a realisation. “Wait…”

“…What?”

“You’re waiting for someone.”

 _Shit._ “Meaning?”

“Meaning you’ve found someone you want. You’re holding out until you can have them.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know that look. You’ve found someone you want and everything else… well. There’s no comparison.”

“Oh, yes, you’ve got me,” Jaskier retorts, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’ve seen through me, oh Mighty Witcher. I’ve travelled the world and decided there’s only one perfect cock for me, and I’ve sworn off all other carnal pleasures until I can have it.” 

Geralt looks at him over the rim of his mug. Jaskier straightens his back a little, waiting for the response – waiting to see if the witcher will chastise him for being so irrevocably terrible or laugh at what he hopes he assumes is the obvious jest. 

“Just one?” He says, placing his drink back on the table. “What a shame. It sounds to me like you just need a good fuck.” 

He freezes. He can feel his ears turning pink, giving him away. _Okay, then,_ he thinks, _that’s how it is._

He puts the mug down and twists in his seat a little, crossing his legs as he does so his knees are pointing at Geralt. He straightens his posture, pushing back his shoulders. Butterflies have exploded in his stomach, but the rush of it is making him confident, encouraging him to keep pushing.

“Really?” He says, raising his eyebrows, “You think so? 

Geralt shrugs. 

“Maybe you’re right,” he takes another drink, holding his gaze, “but I’m afraid I won’t be able to find anything like _that_ in a village like _this."_

The witcher takes a brief glance around the room. “Pity.”

They lapse into tense silence again. Aware that their conversation has drifted, Jaskier tentatively picks up the thread once more, steering it gently back towards coin and monsters. About where they might travel next – what else they might see. He laughs a little louder at his own jokes than is necessary, unable to stop himself, horribly aware that his ears are still infuriatingly flushed.

Despite the weakness of the beer he’s feeling bold, feeling dizzy. There’s something _about_ Geralt this evening, something new and uninhibited and – well. He likes it. He can feel the tension building in his back, in his shoulders. There _is_ something there, he knows it – something new and a little bit wild. Geralt’s eyes look dark – darker than usual – and there’s still that little half-smile tugging at his lips.

He’s spent enough time around magic and mages and curses to know that he should, perhaps, be suspicious of Geralt’s sudden affability, but he’s more than happy to ignore that niggling doubt. He would rather drink and talk and flirt than think about that. 

Soon, their drinks are spent. Geralt pushes the empty mugs towards him.

“I believe it’s your round, Jaskier.”

“Urgh, is it?”

“That is how rounds work, yes.”

“Okay, _fine."_ He stands in a swift movement and grabs the empty cups. “I _suppose_ I can part with a few crowns.” 

He risks a quick look at Geralt over his shoulder as he leaves and notes, with a little skip somewhere in his stomach, that he’s watching him. He can _feel_ his gaze following him as he weaves his way through the patrons back towards the bar. They don’t move out of his way like they do for Geralt, but he doesn’t care – he slaloms through the squeeze of people and chairs and tables, fully aware that he’s sauntering more than is necessary, that he’s swaying his hips as he walks.

He wants to look over his shoulder again, to see if Geralt’s still watching, but forces himself to keep looking forwards until he gets to the bar. He finally reaches his destination, puts the spent cups down and allows himself to turn.

Geralt _is_ watching him. As he looks, he catches Geralt’s stare snap up from his arse to his face.

He holds his gaze. It’s like there’s no one else in the room. 

“Same again?”

He jumps out of his skin and spins around. “Fuck!”

The barman looks amused. “Everything alright, master bard?”

“Sorry, I was…” he shakes his head, “Miles away, there. Ah… You were saying?”

“Ale?” The barman gestures at the empty cups.

“Right! Yes, ale. Please.” 

He grabs the cups and heads towards the back of the room where the dusty barrels are resting on a frame built into the wall. Jaskier sighs and leans on the bar, unpleasantly aware of how fast his heart is beating. _No,_ he thinks, trying to reign himself back in, _you’re imagining it._ And yet – there’d been something in the way Geralt had spoken. _What a shame._ Does he mean it’s a shame for Jaskier – trapped wanting something he can’t have – or a shame for everyone who can’t have him now he’s taken himself off the market? Does he mean – somehow – that it’s a shame for _Geralt?_

That can’t be it. That cannot possibly be it. But… if he turns around, if he turns around _right now,_ will he catch him staring at his arse again?

He can’t bring himself to look.

The barman returns, and Jaskier absent-mindedly hands him the coins, grabs the mugs and heads back to the table. It feels like a mile between the bar and where Geralt is sitting, and Jaskier’s stomach is squeezing with anticipation and anxiety, his lips suddenly dry. He finally makes it back, half-drunk already on adrenaline, and places the drinks down without spilling too much.

He pauses, then makes a sudden decision. As he sits back down, he scoots the stool along the wooden floor, moving it closer to where Geralt is sitting. Geralt doesn’t acknowledge the movement, just watches him with those dark eyes.

He grabs his cup for something to do with his hand and drinks. The ale is hoppy on his tongue – a new barrel, he suspects, as the watered-down aftertaste is gone. With his free hand – the one not clinging to the mug like it’s a lifeline – he starts playing with his hair, with the little flop of fringe that he’s so carefully styled. He leans with an elbow balanced on the table, his hand busy, constantly moving. He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, rubs his jaw, dances a finger across the corner of his mouth as he speaks. He finds himself laughing a little louder than he usually would, filling in the silences, compensating for his friend’s stoicism – and his own nerves. 

They chat, blithely, about nothing particularly important. Jaskier makes a joke about the alghoul Geralt had been hired to kill last month – the one that had nearly destroyed his armour – and Geralt laughs, even though it had been a pretty shitty joke. Despite the relaxing warmth of the long-awaited booze, his leg is still bouncing, the mix of nerves and this sudden, new, unspoken _thing_ making him jittery. Geralt never laughs at his jokes.

Well, _nearly_ never. 

He’s halfway through another story – he keeps losing his train of thought, too busy thinking about the way Geralt is looking at him, about the way he’d said _need a good fuck_ – when Geralt cuts through his chatter, cooly.

“Nervous?” he says, nodding towards Jaskier’s bouncing leg with a smirk.

Jaskier laughs, feeling a little silly, and is about to respond with something charming when Geralt reaches out and places a hand on his knee. _Oh, gods._ He freezes, feeling a little like his heart might just give out. Geralt’s hand is warm – he can feel the warmth even through the fabric of his breeches – and the touch is firm but gentle. He can feel himself blushing, giving himself away.

He swallows, heavily. _Well, then._ He peers at Geralt, biting just a little on his lip, and he catches the split-second moment when the witcher’s eyes dart down to his mouth and back. He lowers his hand, slowly, and lets his fingertips gently brush against the back of Geralt’s, moving them in soft little circles. He tries to look unbothered, to look _casual,_ but he’s sure his ears must be scarlet by now and he can feel his pulse, rapid in his neck. There’s a pressure growing in his core, in the base of his stomach.

They’ve touched before. They’re _always_ touching. But this is deliberate and sure and is different, somehow. This isn’t grabbing him before he can be mauled by a sandcrab or pulling him up onto Roach – this is intimate. Private. 

“So—” He begins, unsure of what he’s even going to say.

“Jaskier.”

“Hmm?”

Geralt leans in till his lips are barely an inch from Jaskier’s ear. He can feel the heat of his breath on his skin, making his arms erupt into goosebumps. 

“You mentioned something about… suitable sleeping arrangements?”

Jaskier doesn’t even _think._ He grabs his mug and quickly downs the last of his beer in one swift movement, not caring for the trickles of ale spilling from the edges of the cup and down his chin. He stands up with such speed that his hip collides with the table, and he nearly sends it flying. Geralt’s hand is out in a flash, grabbing onto his elbow to stop him falling. There’s a long moment where neither of them move, Jaskier feeling a little giddy, watching him. He finally lets go and gestures for Jaskier to lead the way, which he does happily, unable to stop the ridiculous grin spreading across his face, or the hotness creeping up his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

The air outside the pub is cool against Jaskier's flushed face. He takes a deep breath, but it does little to calm his rapid heart or sooth the excitement in his chest. Geralt appears beside him, close enough that their elbows brush together as they walk.

“So, you found an inn?”

“Actually, Geralt, that’s the thing…” there’s suddenly a hot ball of nerves in his chest, and he's suddenly terrified that he’s completely misinterpreted Geralt’s words, “I’ve been meaning to tell you, there was a _slight_ problem with the, ah… the room situation. I mean, there _is_ an inn here, but it isn’t what I’d call _large,_ so—”

Geralt cuts him off. “Out with it, Jaskier.”

“I did _ask,_ of course, but you know how these little towns are...” oh for fuck’s sake, he’s rambling, “and—” 

_"Jaskier."_

_There’s only one bed._ That’s not a problem. If Geralt is implying what he thinks he’s implying, it’s the opposite of a problem.

They’ve shared a bed before – many times, in fact – and they’re no longer shy to the way their bodies slot together in a too-small space. Jaskier is familiar with the noises Geralt makes in his sleep, especially when his nose is pressed into the crook of Jaskier’s neck. He’s familiar with the smell of Geralt’s hair when there’s nowhere else for him to put his head and there’s only one, tiny pillow. He’s familiar to the way that Geralt is always slightly warmer than him, the way he can tell when the witcher has fallen asleep by the way the temperature of his skin suddenly spikes.

He’s familiar with all of it. But the little, niggling voice of doubt is still gnawing at him, warning him, worrying at him. What if that’s not what he meant?

There’s only one thing for it. He takes a deep breath.

“The issue is, there was onl— Oh!” Before he can even get the words out – the confession – Geralt has grabbed his shoulders and pulled him towards him. Carried by the momentum, he finds himself pressed up against the witcher, his hands resting on his chest. 

“Uh… Geralt?” He manages, weakly.

“Thought I heard something.” Geralt is staring down the road into the darkness, his pupils wide, looking for something.

“…Right.” Jaskier swallows. Geralt is still gripping his shoulders, his fingers pressed into the expensive blue silk. He looks down, slowly, as if only just noticing Jaskier is there.

“Ah.” He finally lets him go, freeing him. The fabric of Jaskier’s jacket is rumpled where Geralt’s fingers had been gripping him. He can still feel them there, his skin tingling.

He knows he should step away, now that whatever danger Geralt had perceived has passed. But his hands, almost unconsciously, are gripping onto the fabric of Geralt’s tunic, anchoring him, refusing to let go. He can’t let go. He _won’t_ let go. His heart is pounding, and he wonders if the witcher can hear it. Neither of them move for what feels like an age – they just stare, Jaskier’s head slightly tilted up, lost in Geralt’s huge, yellow eyes.

There’s a movement at his side that he barely registers, and then, as if from nowhere, Geralt is placing his hand on the side of Jaskier’s face. His touch is gentle, his skin warm. He holds his hand there for a moment, his fingers imperceptibly twitching against Jaskier’s cheek.

He’s going to say something – he’s _got_ to say something, anything to break this new tension – but before Jaskier can even choose the words Geralt leans down, sudden and urgent, and crushes his lips against his.

Oh. _Oh._ A small, needy gasp escapes his lips, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He’s been thinking about this moment for too long, imagining how it could go, trying to push those thoughts back – and suddenly it’s happening and it’s nothing like he thought it might be.

It’s better.

He opens his mouth greedily, keen to let Geralt in, desperate to feel the taste of his tongue. Jaskier’s hands are roaming, exploring the witcher’s body in a way he’s never done before. He snakes his hands up, over his shoulders, finding purchase on the warm skin in the crook of Geralt’s neck, his hand slipping beneath the fabric of Geralt’s shirt. The other moves over his collarbone, up his neck to his nape. Geralt’s hair is in the messy half-bun he favours when monster hunting, and Jaskier’s fingers grip into the long, loose hair spilling from it. He’s played with Geralt’s hair countless times – he _washes it for him,_ for fuck’s sake – but this is new and different and electric. He lets his nails dig into the sensitive skin of Geralt’s scalp and then, taking a chance, tugs on the hair at the back of his head.

Geralt makes a low rumbling sound against his mouth, then grabs Jaskier’s hips and pulls him closer, pressing their bodies together. His hands feel huge on Jaskier’s waist, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh, dangerously close to his crotch. Unable to help himself, he stutters out a moan, and Geralt’s fingers press even harder into his skin, making his heart skip. Drunk on a cocktail of adrenaline and desire, Jaskier lets his hands move over Geralt's body, desperate to touch as much of him as possible, to take him all in, to feel him under his hands. He drifts lower, his hands dancing over Geralt’s waist, over his hips. He pauses, for a moment, suddenly unsure. What if he goes too far? What if he goes too far and never gets to experience this _bliss_ ever again? 

Geralt seems to have noticed his sudden hesitation, the way Jaskier’s hands have stopped in their frantic exploration of his body. He doesn’t say anything – doesn’t break the frenzied, urgent kiss - but a low hum rumbles from his chest and he takes Jaskier’s bottom lip between his teeth with a tug. 

It’s like all the air has been sucked out of his lungs. Jaskier’s hesitance vanishes and he reaches down. He’s more well-acquainted with Geralt’s arse than he would willingly admit to anyone else – the memory of the smell of chamomile teases at him – but not like this. It’s delightfully shapely, the perfect size for squeezing, so he does just that, his fingers digging into the flesh. 

Oh, but it really is a _lovely_ bottom. Geralt makes an appreciative noise against his mouth, and Jaskier _knows_ that’s not a dagger that’s pressed into his hip, rubbing against him. The kissing is magnificent, and the feeling of Geralt’s tongue dragging along his lower lip is even better, but neither turn him on as much as knowing the effect he’s having on the witcher, being able to feel the effect of his caresses pressing against him. 

Finally, Geralt pulls away. It could have been hours or mere minutes – Jaskier has no way of telling, time slipping away from him. His heart is thundering, and he can feel his pulse twitching in his wrists, in his neck. His breath, hot and wanting, spills from his lungs in clouds in the freezing air. He looks at Geralt with sparkling eyes, seeing him like he’s never seen him before.

His mind comes slowly back to him, and he remembers that he was supposed to be leading Geralt to the inn, and _that_ thought - the thought of their tiny, shared bed - makes his heart rate spike once more, his cock stiffening in his breeches. Geralt treats him to a little half-smile, and before Jaskier can say anything – not that he’s sure anything he says right now will make sense – he hooks a hand around his arm and leads him down the street. Geralt takes a quick look around, then ducks into a side street, pulling Jaskier with him.

“But the inn is—” Jaskier begins, before being muffled into silence under another kiss. Jaskier feels like his body is on fire, like there’s lightning in his blood, yet the kiss _still_ takes him by surprise, and he can’t help but sigh as Geralt’s lips hungrily move against his own. 

They break away quickly, this time, and Geralt urges him further down the little side street. There’s a courtyard back here, a little empty space where the backs of several oddly shaped houses meet. The muddy floor is strewn with rubbish – scraps of rotten vegetables, little piles of hay. The space is probably used for storage on days when the weather is fine.

He realises, with a rush, what’s going on – that Geralt is manoeuvring them out of the way of the street – and suddenly the muddy ground and old straw and debris don’t matter. Nothing matters: nothing but the way Geralt’s lips had felt against his own, the angle of his jaw beneath his hand, the gentle firmness of Geralt’s hand resting on the centre of his chest.

He stumbles back as Geralt guides him against the wall, into the corner where two buildings meet, away from prying eyes. He bumps into the brickwork and there’s an odd, hollow-sounding _thump,_ and he realises that his lute is still slung over his back. He disentangles himself from Geralt’s grip and, without even thinking, struggles out of the strap. He has intentions, vague and unimportant, to rest the lute against the wall, or place it down gently, but he finds himself dropping it to the floor almost automatically.

At least the ground is soft. Geralt closes the gap between them with a smile and a low chuckle, wearing an expression that Jaskier’s never seen before, like he wants to _devour_ him. The cold stone presses into his back as he finds himself pinned against the wall, and he stares Geralt down, willing him to take the next step, _daring_ him. His face is hot and flushed, and he can feel his crumpled doublet riding up where he’s pressed to the bricks, but he doesn’t care. His breaths come heavy and slowly, his chest rising and falling. He licks his lips, slowly, letting his mouth hang slightly ajar.

Geralt slowly raises his hand, and Jaskier thinks he’s going to touch his face again, but he settles it in the crook of his neck. He shudders slightly at the touch, and Geralt pushes aside the luxurious fabric of his doublet and the thin undershirt beneath, wrapping his hand around the side of his neck. Slowly, watching him for a reaction, he starts to rub the soft skin between Jaskier’s jaw and neck, rough skin slipping over soft. Jaskier swallows, and from the heady mix of emotions comes spiralling a spike of adrenaline – a sudden palpable feeling somewhere between fear and elation. _It’s happening, it’s finally happening._

Geralt’s other hand finds its way to his hip, his thumb pressing into him, his fingers gripping him. Jaskier can’t tell if he’s pulling him closer or keeping him pinned against the wall – either way, it’s heavenly. There really isn’t that much height difference between the two of them, Jaskier knows, but Geralt is broader and undoubtedly stronger and his hands are large and rough. He’s been staring at his hands for a while now, and having them _on_ him sends little sparks down his spine.

Finally, Geralt leans forwards once more and kisses him again with an impatient, lustful hum. He presses into him, their bodies squeezed together, and then shifts – one of his feet edging forwards. Jaskier immediately realises what he’s doing, and parts his legs, his feet skidding a little on the wet ground. He can feel Geralt smile against his lips, hears another of those sinful little noises rumble up from his throat, as he slides his thigh between his legs.

Jaskier leans forwards just a fraction, pressing himself down on the hardness of Geralt’s thigh with a sigh. He slips his tongue between Geralt’s parted lips, tasting him, drinking him in. He grips him harder, wishing he could rip his maddening linen shirt away to get at the skin beneath. Geralt breaks off the kiss with another little bite at his bottom lip, Jaskier gasping as he does, and gives him a lingering, heated look before burying trailing a series of small, nibbling kisses across his jaw and down his neck. Jaskier’s skin is tingling and flushed, his cock almost painfully stiff against Geralt’s leg.

Geralt flicks his tongue over the sensitive skin of his neck, and Jaskier shivers beneath him. The witcher _hums_ contentedly, then suddenly both of his hands are on Jaskier’s hips, and he pulls him towards him, grinding him against his leg, replacing the gentle wetness of his tongue with the sudden bluntness of teeth.

“Geralt…” It’s almost a whisper, half-moaned into his ear, and Geralt does it _again,_ sucking at his neck, and it’s almost too much to handle.

“Ah - Geralt - _Fuck…"_

It feels amazing, his body shuddering with anticipation, his heart thundering in his chest. Part of him wants to drag the witcher back to the inn so he can have his way with him – part of him can’t bear to stop, dizzy with lust, happy to finish right where they stand. He’s considering ripping Geralt’s shirt off when there’s a voice - sudden, urgent, angry.

“Hands off the bard.”

Jaskier freezes. Geralt, his thigh between Jaskier’s legs, his head buried in his neck, also freezes. That voice… He feels his blood run cold, his mind racing.

He knows he’s safe, here, at least. Geralt is where he always is: between Jaskier and the danger. He’s _safe._ He wrenches his eyes open, peering over Geralt’s shoulder. 

It feels quite a lot like the world has fallen out from beneath him. Standing there, in the middle of the courtyard, covered in slick, black gunk and with burning, _furious_ eyes is Geralt of Rivia. The heady, lusty feeling he's basking in is gone; replaced with this new, bottomless fear. There’s two Geralts, two witchers, two of him and—

A sudden, burning image scorches itself across his mind of what, exactly, one could do with _two_ Geralts. 

No. _No._ Not thinking about that – it’s just residual energy, he’s still undeniably aroused, his brain unable to properly disconnect the sheer glory of having Geralt wrapped around him with the sudden horror of – of whatever this thing is.

“Uh… Geralt…” His hands, still wrapped around Geralt’s shoulders, squeeze a little tighter. 

Geralt turns his arms still wrapped around Jaskier, keeping him close – keeping him safe. He scowls at the interloper. 

The second Geralt – the intruder – steps forwards, and Jaskier can see the silvery glint of his sword in his hand. “I said,” he murmurs, his voice low and dark and _identical_ to Geralt’s, “ _h_ _ands off."_

Hearing Geralt say that under any other circumstances would be enough to send Jaskier’s heart fluttering, but now the words are wasted. He would quite like for Geralt to keep his hands _on,_ thank you very much. He intruder glares at them – a familiar expression – and Jaskier instinctively digs his nails even tighter into Geralt’s shoulder. 

“What’s going on, Geralt?”

The intruder looks, somehow, _angrier._ Geralt turns back to him and gives him a reassuring squeeze.

“A doppler,” he says, calmly, “easily dealt with.”

Jaskier lets himself relax a little. A doppler. That makes sense. He’s never a met a doppler – not that he knows of – but he’s heard enough about them through stories and ballads. Shape-changers. Face stealers.

The newcomer growls. “I’m no doppler.”

Geralt sighs with an exaggerated roll of his eyes and turns back to the doppler. “No?” He says, with a voice dripping with venom, “then I suppose you’re just my long-lost twin?” He raises an eyebrow. He’s baiting it, Jaskier realises, trying to make it act irrationally. 

“Fuck off.”

The doppler appears to be just as eloquent as the real thing. Much to Jaskier’s displeasure, Geralt finally lets him go, letting him drop back onto the soft ground before turning to face the intruder. Jaskier shudders as he peers at the doppler – at the _creature_ – that’s now stalking towards Geralt. It mimics him perfectly, from the angle of his jaw to the fall of his stride to the way he grips the sword in his hand, fingers flexing.

“It… it looks just like you,” he mutters, finding himself rooted to the spot in fear, watching them both warily.

“It _is_ just like me.” Geralt responds, keeping his eyes fixed on the doppler. “Face, body, memories, thoughts… everything.”

 _Everything._ He finally finds the strength to move, stepping backwards, pressing himself against the wall.

“Enough.” The doppler snarls, raising its sword, “Enough with the teasing, doppler. We’re both well aware that you’re the imposter. Drop the act now, and maybe I won’t have to kill you.”

Jaskier’s eyes dart between the two of them. Between the man and the monster. Geralt is a man of swords and fists and blood – not words. This teasing won’t last long.

Geralt smirks. “Are we? Is this an argument you think you can win, doppler?”

“What’s your plan?” Says the intruder, his voice clear and confident. “Kill me, assume my identity, pretend you’re a witcher until, what? Someone tries to hire you and you get your throat ripped out by a ghoul?” 

It’s like a game of riddles, both of them baiting the other. But Geralt – the real Geralt, _his_ Geralt – is already reaching for his sword, his eyes still fixed on the doppler. The doppler flexes its fingers on its sword, too. 

“You really want to do this?” Geralt says, with a little tilt of his head. Jaskier can _hear_ the teasing grin in the tone of his voice.

The doppler squares his shoulders and grimaces. “Fine.” It suddenly snaps into action, swinging its sword over its head and leaping towards Geralt. But Geralt is just as quick, raising his own sword just in time to parry the blow, stumbling backwards. The doppler swings again, and Geralt deflects the second blow just as easily, then lunges an attack himself, aiming low. The doppler manages to dodge, knocking the sword out of the way with its own weapon, feet skidding across the mud as it jumps out of the way of the blade.

It winces as it skids – a gesture that neither Geralt nor Jaskier miss.

“We don’t have to do this, doppler,” says the doppler, an edge to its voice.

Geralt spins his sword in his hand and shoots a quick look at Jaskier - protective and fierce. “Yes we do,” he says, then swings around again, silver flashing through the darkness. Jaskier’s heart leaps into his throat as the doppler avoids the attack, spinning low and landing a crunching kick into Geralt’s knee as he dodges past, making him stumble. Geralt rights himself almost immediately, his sword swinging down, and suddenly they’re slashing at each other, neither succeeding in making a blow.

Jaskier can’t help but watch, enraptured, by the scene playing out in front of him. It’s fascinating, and terrible. The two of them dance and spin around each other, their movements matching perfectly, like watching Geralt fight his own reflection. They’re equally matched in every way, neither showing any clear advantage over the other. 

Swords clash overhead, ringing into the silent night, and after a hurried attack Geralt manages to force the doppler against the wall. He strides forwards, sword raised, ready to finish the job, when the doppler extends a sudden arm, twists his fingers, and _bam._ Geralt is sent flying backwards across the ground, his sword spiralling out of his grip and landing in the mud yards away.

It’s a witcher sign, Jaskier knows – Aard, he thinks, although every time he’s asked Geralt to talk him through them he’s responded with nothing more than a grunt. Before Geralt has had a chance to get back on his feet, the doppler strides towards him and presses a heavy foot onto his chest, pushing him back down into the mud.

“Geralt – no!” He’s shouting, suddenly, but both of them ignore him. Geralt goes to rise, pressing his elbows into the ground, but the doppler hits him with the same sign again, forcing him back down, winded. It’s fine, Jaskier thinks, it’s _fine,_ he’ll just get back up, he’ll be okay– 

He can still taste Geralt on his lips, and his heart is trying to explode from beneath his ribs, and Geralt is breathless and the floor and he’s _his_ , damn it, he’s _his_ and now all that sweetness is being taken from him.

The doppler presses his food down harder. “Go on,” it says, a smile on its face, “show me a sign, witcher. Throw me off. Burn me. Control me.”

Geralt grimaces and finally manages to twist free from beneath its foot, backing up a couple feet before pushing himself up once more, his hand automatically reaching for the second sword slung on his back.

“Steel?” Says the mimic, and now he’s _laughing,_ “For a doppler? Poor choice.”

Geralt doesn’t dignify that with a response, just rushes forwards, but the doppler raises its hand again and a bright purple barrier springs up around him in a neat, glowing circle, trapping him. He yells in pain as he collides with the purple light. The doppler raises an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t need to prove anything to you, doppler,” Geralt growls, his grip tightening around his sword.

The doppler takes a step back. “No?” He says, looking smug, “What about him?”

And suddenly that intense gaze is on Jaskier. He pales under the doppler's scrutiny. Jaskier can barely talk – can barely stutter the words out.

“What…” He tries to take a calming breath, “what _about_ me?”

“Do you want him to prove himself?”

Jaskier looks helplessly back to Geralt, still trapped behind the magical barrier. He stares back at him, eyes wide, desperate.

“I… but he…” he shakes his head, trying not to let his fear show, trying to stop his lips from quaking, _"He’s_ Geralt.” He says, trying to sound certain. He doesn’t _feel_ certain, suddenly.

“Are you sure?” Asks the doppler. Jaskier’s head snaps around to stare at him. “He’s not…” the doppler sighs, then continues. “It’s a _trick,_ Jaskier.” Its tone has shifted, slightly. The anger is gone, the rage has gone. He’s trying to be calm. “They followed us and took my place while I was knee-deep in kikimora shit.” 

It’s not true. He refuses to believe it. “…No.” He can’t get the word out in anything louder than a whisper.

“I…” The doppler – the intruder – the person claiming to be Geralt, pauses for a moment. “Yes, Jaskier.”

He looks… sad. Like this is paining him, too.

Jaskier takes another breath, nervously rubbing his fingers together, trying not to let the hot, painful feeling of doubt overwhelm him. Because… because if this _isn’t_ Geralt, then… 

He turns back to the man behind the barrier. “Prove it, Geralt,” he says, voice breaking. _"Please."_

Geralt, if it even _is_ Geralt, can’t hold his gaze, dropping his head to the ground. The other man flexes his fingers once more and the magical barrier drops away. Geralt extends a hand, forms it into a sign that Jaskier recognises but cannot name, and aims at the doppler.

Nothing happens. He does it again, and again, his face growing more desperate. There’s no magic, no spells, not even a gust of wind or sparks or _anything._

 _No,_ thinks Jaskier, panic rising in his throat like bile, _no, no no._ He watches as the man – this man who clearly, _obviously_ isn’t Geralt – attempts to cast a sign, _any_ sign, watches as he fails over and over. He wants to yell, wants to scream, wants to rip his hair out for being so _fucking_ stupid. 

_Of course. Of course. How could I even think—_

“Give in, doppler.” Growls the intruder – the _real_ Geralt, Jaskier can now see.

The doppler shakes its head, and Jaskier realises, slowly, that it’s still got the steel sword gripped in its hand. It’s a doppler. It was always a doppler. He thinks back to the pub, with its hand on his knee, in the street, in the alley, the kiss – the feeling of it pressed against him, the comfort of Geralt’s arms which were never Geralt’s arms at all.

It has a sword in its hand and a glint in its eye and slowly, silently, Jaskier reaches down and grabs the lute from the floor.

“Doppler—” Geralt begins, but the doppler screams, the sound roaring and visceral, and swings its arm back ready to strike.

Before he can, Jaskier brings the lute around in a wide arc, and crashes it down onto its head. The sword slips from their limp grasp onto the ground, and it slumps forwards onto its knees, dazed. Jaskier looks up over its head at Geralt – at the _real_ Geralt – silent and afraid.

“Well done," says Geralt, before turning to the thing kneeling on the ground in front of him. He takes the chance before the doppler recovers from the blow and presses his silver sword against its neck. Jaskier flinches at the sound of scorching flesh, and the doppler gasps.

“Show your true form.”

Geralt presses harder, and the sound and smell of burning flesh makes Jaskier feel like he’s going to be sick. A bead of blood appears where the tip of the sword presses into the doppler’s neck. It winces at the sting of the sword, letting out a low growl in Geralt’s voice.

“It’s over.” Geralt stares down at the doppler, his gaze cold. “You can’t win. Turn back.”

The doppler snarls again, but before it can launch another attach Geralt presses the sword harder into its neck. There’s a wet sizzling sound as the sword cuts into their skin.

The doppler relents. As Jaskier watches, horrified, it begins to transform. Its skin bubbles and writhes, like there’s snakes under its skin, and its clothes and swords – even the one tossed aside – melt and slink back into its mass. Its hair – the hair that Jaskier was so enthusiastically tugging at – begins to shrink, pulling back into its scalp, the shape of its skull deforming, wobbling, _heaving._

The transformation barely takes a minute. When the mass of skin and flesh has finally stopped moving, Jaskier gasps at the thing in front of him, choking back his disgust. The thing – the doppler – is grey and misshapen, its skin lumpy and ashy and mottled. 

“I would leave, if I were you,” says Geralt, slowly. 

"Kill it, Geralt.” It slips out before he can stop it. Geralt and the doppler both spin to look at him, the doppler looking terrified and Geralt looking stony – and yet, he’s sure, a little impressed. The corner of his lip quirks upwards. The doppler spins back to Geralt, who raises an eyebrow at him. For a moment, Jaskier thinks he’s actually going to do it.

“We didn’t… please, Jaskier…” The doppler, still on its knees, reaches out towards Jaskier with one of his grey, distorted hands. Jaskier recoils, snatching his hand away and leaping back in disgust. He can’t help but grimace at it, feeling the blood drain from his face.

Geralt lowers his sword. “If I see you around here again, doppler,” he says, voice menacing, “I will kill you. If I hear any more stories of mistaken identities… I will kill you. Are we clear?” 

The doppler nods frantically.

“Then fuck off.”

The doppler leaps somewhat unsteadily to its feet. Jaskier jumps back as it rushes past, fleeing out of the alleyway and away. Silence falls, and Jaskier can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, threatening to deafen him. His breaths are coming in short, shallow bursts, like he’s drowning. It wasn’t Geralt. It wasn’t him. It never _was_ him never _will be_ him, never—

“Jaskier—” Geralt is reaching out towards him, and his voice cuts across his panicked thoughts like a knife, making him jump. Jaskier takes another step back, staring at him, trying to figure him out – trying to work out if it’s another trick.

Geralt looks hurt. Sad. But worried, more than either of those. Genuinely worried.

“What the fuck is going on, Geralt?” He spits it out, feeling manic, feeling his fingers twitching against each other. The hot, horrible embarrassment is trying to smother him, so he turns it around, throws it back out, transforms it into anger.

“Ah…”

Jaskier realises he’s still clinging to the shattered remains of his lute, which he throws to the floor. He doesn’t even react to the noise the snapped strings and broken body makes as it hits the mud. 

“Where _were_ you?” He demands, hands shaking.

“There was a kikimora.”

Jaskier stares at him. It’s not good enough. “And?”

“And I killed it. The doppler must have known about the it and taken my place while I was… gone.” 

“It was you.” Jaskier is desperate to keep his voice level, to keep it _angry,_ “I mentioned that fucking alghoul from last month and he laughed, Geralt! He remembered!”

“They’re shitty fighters, but doppler magic is powerful. They mimic memories, thoughts… everything.”

 _Everything._ That word catches in his mind again, repeats itself, but Jaskier can’t cling to that – not anymore, not now.

“A shitty fighter?” He says instead, aghast, “He nearly took you down!”

“Because _I’m_ not a shitty fighter. Fucking _dopplers_.”

“Indeed,” Jaskier huffs, attempting to get better control of his breathing. He’s trying to sound flippant, trying to mask the hot mix of emotions which are all vying for his attention.

Geralt appears to have a sudden thought and closes the space between them eyes wide. “Did he give you anything? He bought you a drink, did it taste unusual? Or bitter?”

Jaskier splutters. “It was just a pint, Geralt!”

“Did it taste unusual?” Geralt repeats, frowning.

Jaskier has no idea what’s happening. “No!”

Suddenly, Geralt’s hand is on his chin, tilting his face towards him. Jaskier feels his stomach flip, his heart skip a frantic beat, remembering this same hand on his face just minutes ago. But Geralt’s expression isn’t tender, isn’t _wanting,_ just urgent and – yes – scared. 

He shuffles his feet, wriggling. He wants to get Geralt’s hand off him, doesn’t want him to ever stop touching him. “What are you—”

“Your pupils are dilated.”

 _Of course they are!_ He wants to yell, _Of course my pupils are fucking dilated, you’re pressed against me in an alleyway and I want you I want you I—_

Geralt backs away, his grip on Jaskier’s face loosening, and he can only half-release the breath he’s been holding onto before he suddenly grabs his jaw, forcing him to open his mouth. He makes an undignified, startled squeak, unable to speak, as Geralt leans closer. He’s just inches from him, their breaths mingling in clouds. Jaskier can feel his pulse quicken, is horribly aware of the hands gripping his face, the feeling of Geralt’s arm pressed against his chest. He’s scared, and angry, and desperately wants to kiss him just once more – just once.

Geralt fixes him with those keen, staring eyes, then _sniffs._ He inhales Jaskier’s breath like a fine wine, like a fragrant flower, then – finally – lets him go.

Jaskier throws himself back against the wall, nowhere else to go. “What the _fuck?"_

“Smelling for drugs. Potions. Herbs. There’s dozens of different concoctions they could have slipped into your drink without you even realising.”

“I… what?” Jaskier feels lost in the conversation, in the horrible situation. “Drugs?”

“Or a spell, or a curse. Anything that could make you act…” Geralt trails off, apparently searching for the right word. “Different.”

Different? _Different?_ Jaskier’s mind is racing, now. He doesn’t know what Geralt is talking about, doesn’t know what he means. Everything is swirling in him like a storm, conflicting emotions battling for dominance. He wants to scream and shout, wants to demand what Geralt thinks is _different_ about him wanting him more than he’s ever wanted _anything._ He wants to stride forwards, draw from his usual easy confidence, and either kiss him or punch him in his stupid fucking face.

He wants to rage, rip his clothes, pull out his hair. He wants to burn the blue silk away that’s still clinging to his skin just to get rid of the lingering ghost-touch of the doppler. He wants to burn _himself_ away for ever believing that Geralt could want him back. 

And yet – still there, still beneath it all, swirling away and writhing in his gut – is the thrill of it all, the lingering butterflies, the unforgettable feeling of Geralt’s hands on his hips, of their lips pressed together, of his tongue in his mouth.

But it _wasn’t_ his tongue. And then – crashing through it all – the doppler, its grey skin, the way Geralt had transformed in front of him into a _thing._

It’s too much. Too much anger: anger and embarrassment and pleasure and lust and long-unrequited dreams and _hurt_ and—

It falls away. There’s no flash, no revelation, just the cacophony of a thousand shouting thoughts suddenly silenced, save for a near imperceptible ringing in his ears. It all drops away from him like a sheet, like a final breath before a jump, like curtains drawing on an empty stage.

He blinks. Empty except for one final voice, one clinging thought. He looks at Geralt, and it sneaks its way across his mind - _you idiot._

Geralt is staring at him, waiting for him to say something. “I’m fine,” he says, simply. He doesn’t know if that’s true or not.

“Hmm”. 

Jaskier floats in the sudden emptiness. He gestures at Geralt, at the strands of thick black goo sticking to his armour, coating his hair.

“What’s… all this?” 

“Kikimora guts.”

“…Okay. Well.” He’s tugs on the edge of his doublet, straightening the hem. It feels like the right thing to do. “I managed to get us a room at the inn. With a bath.”

“Right.” 

He peers at Geralt blankly, waiting to see if the witcher has anything else to say. When it’s clear he doesn’t, he let out a huff of air, feeling his lungs decompress. 

“I’ll, uh… This way, then.”

At his feet are the shattered remains of his lute. He walks past them, blankly. It was there, and now it’s gone. He can’t bring himself to care.

He heads back towards the main road, Geralt following silently behind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning: there is a brief scene in this chapter featuring vomiting.

Jaskier remains in impassive silence all the way back to the inn. The incessant pounding of panic and fear after the discovery of the doppler has gone, the emptiness ringing around his head. He trudges down the wide street, vaguely aware of the sound his footsteps make in the stillness. He wonders if he should be running – he can still feel adrenaline swirling in his veins, urging him to escape – but he doesn’t run, just treks onwards, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. The little, mocking voice continues to quietly berate him from some dark corner of his imagination.

_You’re a fool. An idiot. Stupid fucking—_

He pushes open the door to the inn and mumbles a quick greeting to the owner, who stares over his shoulder at Geralt, her welcoming expression melting into fear – or disgust – at the guts-covered witcher standing in her foyer. He doesn’t stay to chat, but heads up the staircase, moving with the same slow, deliberate steps.

He leads the way to the room, heaves open the door and holds it for Geralt to pass through. As soon as they’re both inside, he slams it shut, bolting it locked with shaking fingers. He sighs, leaning his head against the heavy wood, eyes closed. Safe. He’s safe.

“Jaskier—” 

“There’s only one bed.” Jaskier cuts him off, waving towards the bed but looking at his feet. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“You don’t—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupts again, his voice low. Geralt doesn’t argue.

The bedroll is still lying on the floor where he’d tossed it earlier. He thinks about unrolling it, about getting on with things, but his limbs are leaden and his head heavy. Maybe he can lie on the floor and sleep until everything is less grey.

On the other side of the room, Geralt unbuckles his swords from his back and leans them against the wall. Jaskier turns at the movement and finds himself staring as Geralt struggles with the straps and buckles, coated in a thick layer of guts and congealed blood. He watches him like a deer watches a wolf, waiting for a sudden movement, waiting to run. He wonders if bolting the door had been a good idea. He imagines the man standing in front of him shifting and changing like the doppler had, can see the armour melting away and the hair pulling back until there’s another one of those grey, misshapen creatures locked in the room with him. A shudder creeps down his back. 

_No,_ he tries to remind himself, _no. You know who this is. You saw him cast signs. Dopplers can’t do that._

Another part of him simply doesn’t care anymore. The visceral fear is still creeping over him, clinging to his skin like sweat, but now it just feels like something that’s happening _to_ him. He could panic, he could escape: he could swing back the bolt on the door and run until his legs give way, until he can trust himself to recognise what’s real and what’s not… but the urgency is gone. 

_You behaved like an idiot. He thinks you’re a—_

Geralt swears under his breath as his hands slip on a stuck buckle. “Fuck.”

Somehow, it breaks through. Jaskier looks at Geralt – truly _looks_ at him – and only sees the gruff, untouchable man he’s been travelling with for years.

“Here…” 

Jaskier steps forwards and reaches for the buckle. Geralt suddenly goes still beneath his hands, and there’s a little pang in his chest, a little knife in his heart. It’s awkward, he knows, and _entirely_ inappropriate, but the armour needs to come off and Geralt can’t do it himself. He hopes he isn’t dwelling on what he saw, isn’t silently judging him as he stares at him with those huge, yellow eyes.

He manages to unpick the first buckle with relative ease, unable to hide the look of disgust on his face as kikimora guts lodge beneath his fingernails.

Geralt finally speaks. “Thanks.”

Jaskier swallows, a hard lump in his throat. He moves to the next buckle, trying to focus on the job, picking his way through the blood. When he does manage to speak, his voice is quiet. “I thought dopplers were supposed to be, you know… friendly?” 

“He certainly looked very friendly.” Geralt says it so matter-of-factly, so _straight,_ but he’s teasing him, Jaskier knows. Trying to break the tension.

He scowls at him, trying to ignore the blush that’s creeping on his cheekbones. Geralt has the good grace to look a little guilty.

“Dopplers _are_ generally friendly,” he continues, breaking Jaskier’s gaze and looking towards the floor, “Generally. Just like humans. And just like humans, they’re self-serving, deceitful, and manipulative.”

“…Oh.” His fingers stop moving.

“Like the one we… the one that tricked you.” Geralt says, his voice measured. “They aren’t evil or mindless monsters, but they can be... selfish. They show up wearing my face and take my payment, along with…” He sighs and looks at Jaskier. Their eyes meet. “…anything else they might want.” 

Jaskier feels the rest of his face turn pink, his ears burning. He looks away, back to the armour, chewing on the inside of his lip. Finally, he manages to unhook another buckle and pulls away the first panel. Geralt sighs in relief, and the small, content sound makes Jaskier’s stomach flip.

“Are you… alright?” Geralt asks, concern playing on his face. “Did they hurt you?”

Jaskier can’t help but smile, bitterly. “Not physically.”

“Good.”

 _Good._ Thinks Jaskier. _Good._

It _is_ good. He could have been injured. He could have been killed. Even though Geralt has stressed that dopplers don’t tend to count amongst the more violent races, it’s clear from the furrow in his brow and the sheer _anger_ with which he’d sent it running that he doesn’t trust his own words. He could have died in that alley.

But that doesn’t scare him anymore. He hasn’t _really_ been afraid of getting hurt – or worse – for years now. He suffers the occasional scratch, numerous bruises, a rare broken rib or, if he’s very unlucky, a concussion – but it doesn’t worry him. He knows he’s safe, knows that Geralt is always around to pull him out of the way before things get too bad.

Jaskier’s fingers work at the armour, tugging at straps and digging through debris to unhook the buckles. There’s a sour taste in his mouth. Being physically injured would have been preferable to this – at least the rush of adrenaline and pain would have kept him going, tugged him along as he rode it out. Better than this sour _nothingness,_ better than the pain of knowing-but-not-knowing, better than that constant, berating voice nestled in the back of his head.

 _You’re a fool,_ it says. _An idiot. You’ll never touch him again. Not like this._

Another piece of armour comes away. He carefully places it on the floor then moves around to Geralt’s other arm. His hands move slowly, scraping away half-dried blood with his nails, tugging at straps and buckles, his mind blank. Finally, the last panel comes loose, and Geralt sighs in relief. He rolls his shoulders, stretching out his muscles with a hum. Jaskier stares ahead, the panel still gripped in his hands. He can’t seem to make himself let go, can’t even _move._ He stares at nothing, lost in the slick feeling of blood beneath his fingertips.

“Jaskier.” Geralt is taking the panel from his hands, gently prying away his fingers. Jaskier blinks. “Thank you.” 

He nods. He hadn’t realised how tightly he was gripping onto the armour until his hands are suddenly, uselessly empty, his fingers shaking. He lets out a long breath, one that he feels like he’s been holding since the alleyway. And all the emotions come crashing back at once. 

“I am so _stupid,_ Geralt.”

Geralt’s piling armour on the floor, trying to contain the mess. “What?”

It spills out, hot and angry, overflowing from him. “I am _so_ fucking stupid.” Jaskier’s voice comes back all at once, loud and sure, cracking on the edges. “Of course it wasn’t you. Of course! I should have realised the moment he… the moment it…” His hands clasp into fists and he wants to punch something, wants to _scream._ He pushes past Geralt, slamming into his shoulder, and into the centre of the room. “ _Fuck!"_

“You couldn’t have known—” Geralt starts, but Jaskier shouts over him, unwilling to listen.

“Oh, _oh,_ couldn’t have known? Don’t be fucking dense, Geralt, of _course_ I could have known.” He paces in the tiny space, furious, gesturing with his hands. “I’m sure anyone else would have picked up on the fact that you were acting _totally fucking bizarre,_ but oh no, not me, not Jaskier, the biggest idiot this side of Novigrad…” He shakes his head, trying to get the feeling out. “I just… just… _Urgh!"_

He lets himself fall onto the hard bed and buries his head in his hands, pressing his palms into his eyes until he sees flashing lights.

“And gods save me, did you _see_ _it,_ Geralt?” He mutters into his hands, voice muffled. “All grey and lumpy, like, like…” He shudders, revolted, “…like rotten meat. I can’t… its _tongue_ was in my _mouth!_ And I was going to… we were going to…” There’s a lurch in his stomach and a rush in his throat and a sudden, terrible wetness in his mouth as he thinks about what, exactly, they were going to do. “Oh, gods, I think I’m going to be sick.”

Geralt looks panicked “Ah—"

He tries to swallow it back, but there’s no stopping it now. “No, I am _definitely_ going to be sick, fuck—”

He jumps up from the bed, eyes wide, desperately looking around the room. The ugly vase is suddenly thrust under his nose, and he barely has time to notice the dead flowers scattered across the floor and give a brief, thankful nod to Geralt before vomiting into it. He throws up everything until he’s spitting up foul-tasting bile into the ruined vase.

When he’s finally done, finally empty, he looks up at Geralt. His eyes and nose are streaming and there’s sick splattered around his mouth. He’s glad he can’t see what Geralt can, glad he’s not looking at himself. He half expects Geralt to simply leave him to it, to get as far away from him as he can. He’s mortified - feeling small and stupid and _disgusting._

“You were right.” Gently, cautiously, Geralt takes the vase out of Jaskier’s willing hands. He places it as far away from them as he can then turns back. Jaskier frowns at him. “I should have killed them.”

 _Yes,_ thinks Jaskier. And then – _No._

He doesn’t say either out loud, doesn’t want to open his mouth. He wipes his face with the sleeve of his doublet, wiping away the vomit and snot and tears. 

“I’m going for a walk,” he says.

“Jaskier…”

He needs to get out of this room, needs to get away from Geralt and his maddening closeness. “It's fine. I just need some air.”

And then he’s up, and striding across the room, and sliding back the bolt on the locked door and he’s out – out before Geralt has even had a chance to respond.  
  


The street is dark, and wide, and empty. He can still hear the tavern, the chattering voices within, the warmth of other people. 

He turns on his heel and heads in the other direction. He feels raindrops on his face, promising the deluge to come, but he ignores them, striding onwards. The village really isn’t much more than a dozen houses, lost on the edge of some greater town, and he’s soon beyond the boundaries of the last building, trudging through a field, wading through knee-deep grass. It’s farmland, he assumes, disused in the cold season, abandoned to grow out until the sun comes back.

The grass, slightly damp, rustles as he walks. Little fluttering moths burst from it where he disturbs it with his footsteps, flying up around him in clouds and away into the night. Out here, in the cold air, he can finally breathe again, and he fills his lungs with huge, gasping breaths. He stops, finally, the village far behind him, and closes his eyes, his fingers brushing the wispy tops of the grass.

In the distance, there’s the rumble of thunder. The raindrops become a shower.

He opens his mouth, and he yells. Jaskier’s good at yelling: in Oxenfurt, he’d taught himself to scream a single, pitch-perfect note, just because he could. But this isn’t like that, this isn’t drunkenly showing off to the other bards, trying to impress the blonde with the feather in her hair. This is raw, and real, and _painful._ The storm rolls in above him, his shouts mingling with the thunder, lightning crackling across the sky. 

He shouts, and swears, and clenches his hands into fists at his side, kicking his way through the long grass. There’s a wooden fence bisecting the field a few yards away, and he heads towards it and gives it a swift, solid kick, then swears as his toes burst with pain.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck!”_

Breathless, he falls into silence, leaning on the fence. The rain batters at him, his hair plastered to his head and his clothes sodden and heavy. The splintered wood digs into the palms of his hands, and he can feel the years of wear and rot beneath his fingers. Slowly, he lets go, flexing his hands. 

He’s seen people go into shock before – it’s an occupational hazard when you follow a witcher around, throwing yourself into the path of danger. He’s seen passionate townsfolk break into broken, heavy silences when faced with a ghoul, or when Geralt’s returned to a terrified, desperate family with nothing more than bones. He knows what that feels like, now, when the world drops out from under your feet. 

The worst thing – the worst thing of a hundred worst things – is that he knows it’ll never happen again. He thinks back to the song, which he’s already decided to abandon, to the stale bread at the feast. He’s had a taste, and now, of course, he wants more. He wants it _all._ He wants to know what the real thing tastes like, too – wants to know if it’s just as good.

Geralt had said that the doppler was a perfect copy. Not just in the way he swung his sword or the colour of his hair, but in his thoughts and memories too. _Everything._ Was it just the doppler who’d wanted him, or had it been encouraged – had it been _inspired_ – by the things it found when it had taken over Geralt’s mind? Which of them had really wanted him?

The rain beats heavily, and he stares out across the empty fields. He feels, very suddenly, alone. It weighs in his chest, turns his insides to ice. He’s shivering, his legs wobbling dangerously, so he lets himself drop down onto the wet ground, knees pressed to his chest, the fluttering tips of the grass now at eye-height. It doesn’t matter how muddy he’ll get: the silk is already ruined. What’s a little dirt, now?

He can’t stay. Not in the field – although as much as he may want to, he can’t stay here all night either. He wants to go back to their room at the inn and pretend that this isn’t happening, pretend that nothing’s changed. But he knows he can’t, this time – it’s not fair on either of them. 

Seeing Geralt, _staying_ with him, will be torture. Death by a thousand cuts. Every time he sees his face, every time they share a meal or a spot by the fire, he’ll only be able to remember tonight. He’ll remember the betrayal, remember the hurt. He’ll remember the electric taste of him on his tongue. He can live with that, he thinks. He can live with the pain until one day its faded into an ache, into a dull memory. Jaskier’s aware that he’s far too romantic for his own good – that he never, _truly_ stops loving someone – but one day in the future he’ll be able to pack it away again. One day, the pain will be bearable.

But Geralt – Geralt’s different. His stoicism is a well-constructed façade, and however much he can act like everything’s fine, Jaskier knows that this will be eating at him. He’ll be in their room, he thinks, probably washing the kikimora blood out of his hair, _remembering._ Geralt’s not an idiot. He knows what he saw; understands it. And now he knows the whole, horrible truth about the feelings Jaskier’s been trying so desperately to hide for, gods, he can’t remember how long.

Well, perhaps not the _whole_ truth. As far as Geralt’s aware, Jaskier just wants - what was it - _a good fuck._ That’s easier, in a way: if it’s just lust, just _fucking._ He can blame proximity, blame his own promiscuity. It doesn’t have to mean anything beyond sex. Thinking your friend wants to fuck you is easier to deal with than thinking they’re horribly, irrevocably in love with you.

Not that Jaskier had even known it himself.

He pulls a strand of grass from the ground and spins it around between his thumb and forefinger. He tries to be honest with himself, giving into his flighty emotions, yet this has taken him by surprise. Of course, he _fancies_ Geralt. He’s obscene. He’s _perfect._ Well – _physically_ perfect. He thinks back to what he’d said in the tavern – “an irresistibly muscled sex god.” But he’d thought that was it, thought it was just a rather intense obsession. _Anyone_ would want Geralt. 

It was easy to pretend it was just a passing thing, even in the tavern. And then Geralt had kissed him – then _it_ had kissed him – and everything was muddled and fierce and frenzied.

And now he knows. Now he _sees,_ really, why he follows him around. Why he forgives him so easily. Why, when Geralt gets himself in a scrape or returns from a hunt with injuries, there’s that nasty little ball of anxiety in Jaskier’s chest. Why the song about the hard bread and the delicious feast keeps trying to turn itself into a ballad on the strings of his lute.

He had never just fancied him. It was never _just_ anything. All it had taken was a kiss – several kisses, amongst other things – for him to realise. How bloody inconvenient. 

He tosses the twisted strand of grass to the floor and stands in one, swift movement. His clothes stick unpleasantly to him, cold and uncomfortable. 

No – he could stay, if it was just him. He _has_ stayed, all these months, as he’s wrestled with his feelings. But now it’s not just him. Now Geralt _knows,_ and Jaskier can’t bear to bring him pain, no matter how well he hides it. He can’t make Geralt’s life any more difficult than it already is. If he stays, they’ll both need to suffer through endless tiny rejections, every day, until they inevitably part. If he goes, he can give Geralt the relief he must so sorely need. He can forget that Jaskier had ever been a part of his life.

He’ll leave as soon as he can. He’ll head back to the inn, dry off, sleep on his bedroll on the floor and head out with the rising sun. Perhaps he’ll even be up early enough to leave before Geralt even realises he’s gone.

No – he doubts that. Geralt is an infamously early riser, often leaving Jaskier snoring while he begins his day. Leaving quietly without saying goodbye will be virtually impossible unless he leaves _right now,_ unless he turns away and slogs across the fields, leaving everything behind. He’ll have to accept that there’s going to be a painful farewell in the morning.

Part of him craves it. He imagines, in a hopeful daze, Geralt’s shocked, sad expression when he realises he’s leaving. The little thing he does with his eyebrows when he’s muddling through a particularly turbulent emotion. Jaskier will turn and leave and Geralt will wait – just a moment – before following him, before grabbing his arm, spinning him around in the street and asking him to stay. He’ll try to resist – he has to try to resist, of course – but he’ll give in eventually. 

It’s a nice thought – a pretty little scene from a story or a ballad. But it’s unrealistic, and foolish, and he needs to let it go before he can convince himself that it’ll actually happen.

He’s leaving. He’s left Geralt dozens of times, knowing their paths will cross again eventually. But this time it’s for good. There’s a simultaneous ache and relief to the decision; but he knows its for the best. In the morning, he can start to put the miles between them, and eventually it won’t hurt so much. 

He heads back to the village, the long grass brushing at his knees, the mud squelching beneath his feet. In front of him, the lights of the buildings twinkle in the rain.

  
  
  


He hovers outside the room for what feels like an age, standing in the puddle growing at his feet. He’s soaked through, the expensive silk of his jacket clinging to him. He sniffs, aware that his nose is running, unable to bring himself to care. His whole body is shivering, his teeth chattering together.

He takes a deep breath and pushes open the door.

Geralt is standing there, the laces of his trousers in his hands. His tunic is clinging slightly to his skin – it looks like he’s just gotten out of the bath, his wet hair in messy strands across his face.

He stares at him.

“It’s raining.” It’s all Jaskier can think to say.

Geralt quickly ties his trousers then takes a step forward, his expression urgent. “I was coming to find you.”

“Oh.”

He peers at Jaskier, taking in his dishevelled form. “I assumed you’d be back in the tavern, not… wandering about in the rain.”

“I’m a poet, Geralt,” he says, only half-joking, “Wandering about in the rain is what I do.”

Geralt does not appear to find it amusing. “You’re going to freeze to death is what you’re doing to do,” he says, taking another step forward, brow furrowed. “Not very bardic to be taken down by the fucking flu.”

“Yes, well.” He folds his arms, shivering as the freezing fabric sticks to his chest.

“Get in front of the fire and take off those wet rags before you catch a fever.” Geralt’s tone is scolding – but his face is sincere. Jaskier finds himself complying without even thinking about it, drawn along by the demanding tone. Try as he might, he can’t pretend the order didn’t send a little jolt through his core.

He walks towards the hearth and stands there for a moment, letting the warmth wash over him, before beginning the long, arduous task of removing his doublet. It’s a tricky piece of clothing, all knots and plaits and laces – a challenge enough when dry, but virtually impossible when sopping wet. He tries to unpick the first lace, but his fingers are numb and white-tipped, the whorls of his fingerprints marred with wrinkles, and his hands are still shaking with the cold. 

He’s still struggling with the first lace, finished with a fancy bow that he thought was rather fetching when he’d tied it that morning, when there’s suddenly two huge, rough, _warm_ hands over his, moving them out of the way.

Jaskier freezes. So does Geralt – obviously reacting to him, watching him – but he doesn’t want him to back away.

“Thank you.” He says, his cold lips and chattering teeth clumsily forming the words. He hopes it’s enough – hopes Geralt doesn’t need him to say anything else. 

Geralt nods, keeping his eyes low, and begins to tug at the ribbons and chords. Geralt’s fingers are more suitable to hacking at monsters than untangling delicate ribbons, and Jaskier can only watch, fascinated, as his hands move across the fabric, brushing against his chest. His heart thuds against his ribs, unwilling to let him forget the effect Geralt is _still,_ somehow, having on him. He tries not to think about the simple act – that Geralt is inches from him, undressing him with slow, gentle hands. It’s impossible not to think about.

Finally the last tie is done, and Geralt tugs the ruined doublet from his shoulders, the fabric sticking to his arms. The thin undershirt beneath is equally sodden, but the cheaper fabric may be salvageable. The tunic is also tied at the neck with another impassable knot, and Geralt gets to work on that too, his fingers fluttering at Jaskier’s collarbones. He finally pulls it loose and steps away, and Jaskier can breathe again.

His hands slightly warmer, no long trembling quite as much, Jaskier tugs the tunic out from the waistband of his trousers. The fabric slips over his shoulders, exposing the skin of his neck to the heat of the fire. He barely has a moment to appreciate the warmth before Geralt is suddenly inches from him, his hand in the crook of his neck, his thumb hovering over a slowly purpling bruise nestled just above Jaskier’s collarbone. _Oh, no._ His heart leaps into his throat and he gasps at the sudden contact.

“You said they didn’t hurt you.”

He’s not sure what Geralt means, at first, then the realisation hits him all at once. He laughs, nervously, and licks his lips. 

“Come, Geralt.” He peers at him from beneath his eyelashes, feeling a flush rise up his chest towards Geralt’s hand, “I’ve seen the kinds of women you chase. Surely you’re not _that_ naïve?” 

Geralt frowns for a moment, then suddenly moves his hand away like he’s been burnt. “Ah.”

“Ah _indeed."_ Jaskier feels himself relaxing, slipping back into his old, teasing habits. It’s a nice feeling, and he intends to enjoy it while he can. 

Geralt’s expression is stony, however, and he’s still scowling at the mark on his shoulder, looking venomous. 

“What?” Jaskier probes, feeling a little exasperated. “Don’t get all puritanical on me _now,_ Geralt, it’s a bit late for all that.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his chest. “ _What?"_

He’s not sure what he’s expecting Geralt to say – probably something scathing about dopplers, or something teasing and crude about Jaskier’s willingness to let someone do that to him. He’s anticipating a telling off – although, of course, the doppler wasn’t just _someone._ It was Geralt.

Geralt scowls. He looks pained. “They _marked_ you,” he says, after a long pause. “Like you’re _theirs."_

Jaskier is _not_ expecting him to say that. Geralt’s expression is hard and bitter – almost possessive. Almost jealous. Jaskier swallows, heavily, trying to ignore the way Geralt’s eyes are still lingering on him.

He uncrosses his arms and tugs at the fabric of the tunic, showing off the mark as well as a swathe of soft, pale skin and the length of his slender neck. He pokes at the bruise listlessly. “That’s rather the _point,_ isn’t it?” He says, peering down, “Although now it's just…” he sighs, “an unpleasant reminder. _Anyway,”_ he looks up at Geralt, gaze fixed, shoulders back, “It’s not like I belong to anyone else, is it?”

 _Well?_ He wants to shout it at him – _Do I, Geralt? Do I belong to anyone else?_ But even the thought of it is too much. Instead he stares him down, raises a single eyebrow, and waits.

Geralt swallows. “There’s a salve in the pack,” he says, breaking his gaze, “It’ll get rid of the bruise.”

 _Right._ Jaskier tries not to look sad, tries not to fall into the pit that’s opened in his stomach. “I suppose that’s probably for the best.” 

Geralt turns away from him and heads towards the bed and their bags. Jaskier waits a moment, watching, before tugging off the tunic and then – after only the briefest glance towards Geralt – pulls off his trousers, too. 

They’ve seen each other naked before. Countless times, really – after a while of travelling it’s inevitable, and after even longer its commonplace. Sharing beds and bathwater is a quick way to lower one’s barriers, after all. Jaskier had felt a little odd about it, at first – not _embarrassed,_ just self-conscious, unable to stop himself from comparing his own skinny frame to Geralt’s general magnificence. Now, he barely even thinks about it.

But there’s something in the way Geralt purposefully turns his back, the way he’s diligently digging through his bag. He’s deliberately avoiding looking at him. Geralt’s never been particularly shy – even when Jaskier had first attached himself to him – but now he’s suddenly behaving like a teenager. It’s another little dig, another reminder: everything’s different, now. Jaskier’s bag is still leaning against the wall next to his bedroll, so he rummages through it, looking for something warm and dry. He finds a gently worn tunic and a fresh pair of trousers and struggles into them, his skin still slightly damp from the rain. 

By the time Geralt has finally found the salve, Jaskier is pulling the tunic over his head, ruffling his damp hair with his hands as he does. Geralt hands him the little pot, and Jaskier twists the lid off.

“Urgh, Geralt!” The sudden smell of vinegar hits him and he wrinkles his nose, gagging.

“It’s potent,” Geralt warns, “don’t use too much.”

Jaskier digs his finger into the greying gunk and rubs it onto the mark. It’s unexpectedly warm, sending a hot tingle over his skin, stinging where it touches the bruise.

“How long..?”

“It’ll be gone by the morning.”

Jaskier nods, sadly. He needs to tell him. “Good.” He takes a deep breath. “Just like me, then.” 

Geralt freezes. “What?” 

“I’ll be gone in the morning. I’ll finally be out of your hair, Geralt, off to pastures new.” He tries to inject his usual cheer into the phrase, but it feels dull in his mouth. 

“Gone?”

“Well,” Jaskier chews on his lip, blushing. “I can’t _stay,_ can I? Not after…” he gestures, lamely, towards him, “…all this.” 

He twists the lid back onto the salve and tosses it onto the bed before walking, slowly, towards the window. He leans on the dusty sill, fingers playing in the grime. He’s scared, he realises, but carries on regardless, letting his nervous chatter guide him.

“I mean, Geralt,” he says, staring at the rain, “I _know_ you’re exceptionally good at the pretending-to-not-have-feelings _thing_ you’ve so meticulously practiced over the years, but even _you_ can’t deny that me staying would just be awkward for you, surely? I mean, if it were _me,_ and _I’d_ just found my friend snogging my doppleganger down a dark alleyway I’d...” he pauses, struck with the image of walking in on _himself_ and Geralt in the alleyway. He struggles, for a moment, to regain his train of thought. “Well, _no,_ I wouldn’t, considering.” He says, finally, pulling himself out of the fantasy. “But the point stands! I don’t want my presence to be a burden to you. I don’t want my…” _say it, just fucking say it,_ “... my _feelings_ about you to be a burden.”

He finally turns away from the window, forcing himself to look Geralt in the eye. His face is hot and red, his pulse threatening to deafen him.

Geralt blinks. “…feelings?” 

He thinks, for a moment, about striding across the room and hitting him. “Geralt I _swear_ you’re being deliberately dense, sometimes. _Obviously,_ it’s unfair for me to hang around if that’s going to—” and then, suddenly, everything is clear. “Wait. Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

“Afterwards...” he speaks slowly, like he’s figuring out a riddle. “You were worried that I’d been… cursed or drugged or something. You said I was acting, what was it—”

“Different,” Geralt mutters.

“Yes, _different._ Now, Geralt, I don’t want to hurt your apparently very delicate sensibilities...” he takes a deep breath, knowing that there’s no going back from what he’s about to say, “but under what fucking sun does me grinding against you in an alley constitute me acting _different?"_

Geralt is silent for a long time. His mouth opens and shuts. In any other circumstance, Jaskier would find it hilarious. “It’s not something I recall you doing before.” Geralt says, slowly.

Jaskier thinks he’s going to explode. “Not through lack of fucking _trying!"_

“What?”

“Is _that_ why you’re being weird?” Jaskier starts to pace again, shaking his head, “You thought that thing had fucking _magicked_ me into kissing it?”

“I—”

He doesn’t even give him a chance to respond, yelling over him. “Because, Geralt, that is _extremely_ not the case. It barely had to say _anything_ before I was… urgh!” He wrings his hands as he paces, trying to find a way to get these hot, teeming feelings out, “And, of course, _that’s_ why I feel so spectacularly stupid! Because if I hadn’t been so caught up in the whole damn thing, I would have realised that the _real_ Geralt would certainly _not_ have kissed me like that, or pressed me against a wall, or whispered in my _fucking_ ear!”

“Jaskier…”

Jaskier ignores him, ignores the way Geralt ducks under one of his arms, ignores the way he nearly hits him in the face with a wildly flailing hand.

“You’re all gruff and brooding and moody” he continues, beside himself, “and, look, I _love_ that for you, but it doesn’t take a bloody genius to realise—”

“Jaskier!”

 _"What?”_ He spins around, eyes blazing.

Geralt kisses him. It’s abrupt and sharp and nothing – _nothing_ – like the kiss in the alleyway. He makes a muffled gasping sound, shocked at the suddenness of it. Geralt immediately backs away. He actually looks scared, for once, like he’s gone too far.

“I, ah—”

“Oh, fuck.” Jaskier doesn’t know what else to say. His hand moves instinctively to his mouth, fluttering on his lips. It feels like he’s been punched in the gut – like he’s been punched in the gut, but he _loves_ it. “Geralt, I—” he can’t finish the sentence, just stares at the witcher, waiting. 

“I saw you in the tavern,” Geralt says, urgently, guiltily. “I waited for you to leave so it would be safer for me to step in. But… I didn’t step in. I followed you.” 

“You followed us? Why not… why not stop it?”

“I thought they might attack you if they were startled.” Geralt frowns and looks away, the expression of guilt still twisting his face. “Watching you was… I hated it. They hurt you.”

“It was just a _bruise,_ Geralt.”

“Not that. They _hurt_ you. They tricked you into those things and you were right: I should have killed them for it. For doing that to you.” 

Jaskier wants to agree but can’t bring himself to say the words. He knows how much Geralt hates spilling unnecessary blood. “Well it’s too late for all that now.” 

“No, it’s not. I could track them. Doppler’s don’t have a distinctive scent, but…”

“But?”

“They'll smell of you.”

“Oh.” He desperately wants to ask him what that means, to ask what he smells like. How Geralt is so familiar with his scent that he could track a monster with it. “No. I want you to stay more than I want that thing dead.”

 _I want you to stay._ He tries to make it sound sincere, tries to make Geralt _see._ He wants him to stay with him, wants him to hold him, wants him to kiss him again.

Geralt nods, but doesn’t move. “Okay.” 

Jaskier sighs. Fine, then: he’s going to have to take the initiative.

“It must have been… interesting. Seeing that.” His heart is thundering and he’s sure Geralt can hear it. “Enlightening.” 

“Fuck off. I hated it. I wanted to leap in there and slice their fucking head off.”

The sharp response makes Jaskier’s already overworked heart skip a beat. He peers at Geralt, his scowling face, his twitching lips. And then it clicks.

“Were you _jealous?"_

Geralt narrows his eyes at him but says nothing, which for Jaskier is as good as a confession. He imagines Geralt watching him and the doppler from the shadows, hearing the way Jaskier had moaned and bucked under the hands of the impostor. 

“Oh, _Melitele,_ was it hot?”

Geralt swallows, heavily, avoiding making eye contact. This is _marvellous._ “Oh, you voyeur, you _pervert!”_ Jaskier giggles, a grin spreading across his face. He takes a step closer and raises one of his hands, allowing it to hover above Geralt’s shoulder, not quite making contact. He flutters his fingers, gently, then leans in, allowing just an inch of space between their bodies. He looks up at him from lidded eyes. “Did you _like_ _it?"_ He whispers.

A low, rumbling growl emits from Geralt’s chest. It’s a warning, Jaskier knows, instinctual and out of his control. It's the most arousing noise he's every heard. He grins even wider and wets his bottom lip with his tongue before pinning it between his teeth.

“I won’t judge you if you say yes, you know,” he says, devilishly. “Much.” 

Geralt doesn’t look impressed. “If I hadn’t stopped it…”

“But you _did._ Not before getting a long hard look at me grinding on your leg like a fucking _incubus,_ might I add.” 

“Not my leg.” He’s holding himself back. Jaskier won’t stand for it.

“Certainly looked a lot like your leg,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Certainly felt…” he reaches out and grabs Geralt’s thigh, squeezing it with a little smile. “…a lot like your leg.” 

“Jaskier…”

“Look. It was shitty. It _is_ shitty, now, realising what that thing was. But…” He takes another breath, leans in a little closer, his fingers twitching on Geralt’s leg, “I was quite enjoying myself. At the time.”

Geralt appears to reach a silent conclusion. “I could tell,” he says, with a grin. Jaskier can feel his face flushing as the witcher leans in towards him till his lips are just an inch from his ear. “I’ve never heard you say my name like _that_ before.”

“Well,” he swallows, letting his hand move an inch up his leg, “You’ve never given me good reason to.” 

Geralt smirks at him - a devastating half-smile - then wraps a hand around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him towards him. Jaskier’s heart skips as Geralt’s eyes dart from his eyes to his lips, taking him in. He can't deny that the way he's looking at him - the way he's staring at his lips - is new and exciting and, gods, _incredible._ But he needs more.

Jaskier huffs out an impatient breath, then surges forwards and kisses him, tired of waiting. Geralt is clearly taken by surprise, and a shocked _hmm_ escapes him. Jaskier can’t help but smile against his lips, amused by the reaction, deepening the kiss. Geralt tightens his grip on his waist, sending tingles up and down his spine. He lets out a soft little moan, gasping.

It seems to have the desired effect on Geralt - he grips him even tighter, his fingers slipping on the loose fabric of Jaskier’s shirt, pressing into the skin beneath. Jaskier opens his mouth against Geralt’s and darts an explorative tongue across his bottom lip, teasing him, testing him. Geralt responds with equal enthusiasm, and Jaskier has to swallow back another gasp as he feels the hardness of Geralt’s cock pressing into his hip. He smiles again, tugging with his teeth at Geralt’s lip, pressing his hips into him so Geralt can feel the effect this is having on him, too. 

He reaches up, running his fingers through Geralt's hair, tugging at it as he goes. He moves swiftly down, past his jaw, his neck, his collarbones and down his chest, marvelling at the swell of his muscles beneath his tunic. He hurries even further down and grabs at the loose fabric, pulling it upwards, tugging it away. It drops to the floor at their feet, and he rests his hands on the bare skin of Geralt’s shoulders.

Geralt presses against him, then traps Jaskier’s bottom lip between his teeth. Jaskier instinctively digs his nails into his skin with a shudder as Geralt guides them both to the bed. The back of his legs collide with the mattress and he topples onto it, sideways, pulling Geralt down with him. Now he’s beneath him, Geralt grabs the fabric of Jaskier’s tunic and pulls it off in a single, swift motion. Leaning up on his shoulders, trapped between Geralt’s thighs, Jaskier stares up at him. 

Geralt pauses, just for a moment, taking him in, before running a hand up Jaskier’s torso, his fingers tangling in the coarse hair that covers his chest. He moves lower, brushing a finger over Jaskier’s navel then down still, running a thumb lightly over the area where the waistband of his breeches meets his skin. Jaskier lets his head loll back, his skin tingling wherever Geralt touches him, his body on fire. Geralt rubs one of his thumbs across his nipple and a wave of pleasure shoots through him, and he finds himself bucking his hips into Geralt’s crotch with a happy groan.

Geralt hums contentedly, clearly pleased with himself, and moves his free hand towards Jaskier’s hip. Jaskier watches him, entranced by the way his eyes have darkened, by the way he looks back down at him - like he’s something precious. He holds him down, nestling his thumb into the soft indent of Jaskier’s hip bone, then swipes his thumb across his nipple again.

The ache of pleasure Jaskier is expecting doesn’t come. Instead, in the low light of the room, Geralt seems to shift, seems to _change,_ and suddenly it's like he’s back out there - back in the street, back trapped against that wall with the doppler. He freezes beneath Geralt’s touch, the happy butterflies in his stomach replaced with a churning fear.

“Jaskier-”

“I’m fine!” He tries to sound confident, but his voice cracks, comes out too high. There’s a cool sheen of sweat on his brow.

Geralt leans back, frowning. “You’re not fine.”

Jaskier sighs, then pushes himself up, mirroring Geralt’s movement. “I’m fine," He says again, even though he can feel his heart hammering in his ribs. “Don’t stop.”

“Witcher senses, Jaskier,” says Geralt, peering down at him with concerned eyes. “Your breathing is shallow, your heart…” he moves his hand up Jaskier’s chest, “is too fast.” 

Jaskier is about to argue - to show him why, exactly, his heart his beating like that, but Geralt cuts him off.

“I can smell your fear, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier’s expression must have changed, because Geralt suddenly looks as though he’s hurt him somehow, and tries to move his hand away. But Jaskier’s quicker, his own hand snapping up and pressing it back down.

“I just…” His eyes drop, staring at nothing. “I keep thinking about it. Imagining…” An involuntary shudder racks his body as he remembers human skin transforming, turning and _seething_ into something grey and fleshy and awful.

“We can stop.”

He sighs again. “But I don’t want to stop,” he whines, aware he’s sounding petulant.

“Hmm. It won’t kill you to wait.”

 _“Urgh.”_ Jaskier is unconvinced. Geralt rolls his eyes then shifts his weight from on top of him, moving to lie next to him on the bed.

“I want you to be comfortable.” He says, settling onto the stiff mattress. “Anyway… the smell of fear is a mood killer.”

Jaskier snorts with laughter, then twists around so he’s leaning on his shoulder, facing Geralt. He searches his face for a trace of annoyance, for a lie - but he’s calm, and his eyes are wide and honest. He looks _soft,_ if that’s even possible.

“You don’t mind?” He asks, almost afraid of what the answer might be.

“I don’t mind. We can get food and wine sent up. I can tell you about the kikimora for one of your songs. Or we can do this…” he reaches out, and begins to flutter his fingers over Jaskier’s torso, tracing fine lines across his skin. “And tomorrow evening, I’ll fuck you until your knees give out.” Jaskier bites back a choking gasp - he’s never heard Geralt say anything so explicit; certainly not to him. He can feel the blood rush to his face, his neck and chest flushing. “Or are you still going to leave?” Geralt adds, a single eyebrow raised.

Jaskier sighs. “It was going to be very dramatic, you know,” he says, “very tragic. You were going to run out into the street after me, calling my name. I would have turned around, of course. But not before making you chase me.”

“Hmm.”

“But considering the circumstances …” Jaskier shoots a quick glance at Geralt before lazily stretching on the bed, arching his back, “I suppose I can stay. Till tomorrow evening, at the very least.” 

Geralt glances at him, and Jaskier delights in the way his eyes dart up and down his body, taking him in. He sighs, then rolls _across_ Jaskier to get off the bed, scooping his tunic from the ground and pulling it back on.

“I’ll be back.”

The door closes behind him. It’s silent, save for the heavy noise of the rain beating on the roof. Jaskier can still feel his heart skipping, adrenaline refusing to abate. He curses his inability to just enjoy the moment – the way his mind keeps shifting back to that _thing._ He wants to have it all, wants to wrap his arms around Geralt and see what it _really_ tastes like, see what the real Geralt is capable of. He wants to see him - all of him - touch him all over, _claim_ him.

But it’s still _there,_ still eating at him. The uncertainty has gone, the self-doubt melted away by the feeling of Geralt’s mouth against his, but this is something else – instinctual and almost primitive – that keeps thrusting him back to that moment when the doppler twisted into its true form. He _knows_ he’s safe, _knows_ he isn’t being tricked again, but he can’t convince his mind of that.

Now he’s alone again, still tingling from the way Geralt had touched him, he can feel that panic starting to rise once more. His stomach feels suddenly hollow, tight and squeezing, and he’s thankful that he’s already been sick. He sits up, his head spinning, and while he can feel the cheap, itchy cotton beneath his hands and the straw mattress digging into his legs, it’s like he isn’t even there – like he’s woken abruptly to find himself in a dream. He squeezes his hands, pressing his nails into his palms, focusing on the pressure and the pain.

Shit. _Shit._ He’s panicking again – and he can’t stop. He tries to take deep breaths, but his lungs are like a vice and the air won’t come. _You’re fine,_ he thinks, struggling through the panic, _you’re fine, stop it, stop it_ —

He grabs the single, greying pillow and squeezes it to his chest, trying to breathe, then pulls the thin blanket up around himself, flopping back down onto the bed and cocooning in the fabric. There’s hot tears pricking at his eyes, and here there’s no rain to wash them away, no way to deny the suffocating feeling inside. 

The door opens. His eyes snap open at the sound, and there’s Geralt standing in the doorway, a plate of food in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. He spots Jaskier immediately and doesn’t even say anything – just places the food and drink on the rickety little table, sits on the edge of the bed and pulls him to his chest, the blanket dropping away. As Geralt wraps his arms around him, Jaskier realises that he’s shaking. 

“Geralt, I—” he starts, but the words won’t come as he fights to breathe.

Geralt makes a soft, comforting humming noise, and Jaskier melts into his grip, relaxing against his chest. He’s warm – Geralt is always warm – and the tight hug of his arms around him makes him feel safe; secure. He’s still trembling, and the bitter taste of panic is still on his tongue, but it ebbs away the longer he clings to the witcher.

He unclasps his hands and slides his arms around Geralt, burying his head in the crook of his neck. He smells of wood ash and sweat and horses. He smells like home.

Geralt holds him until he stops shaking.

  
  


Later, when the trembling subsides and he can breathe again, he untangles himself from Geralt’s grasp. He forces himself to nibble a little on the food and sips at the wine, pressed against his witcher, one hand always linked in his. They fall asleep late into the night, Jaskier wrapped around Geralt, his head resting gently on his shoulder.

In the morning, they’ll wake early but refuse to leave the bed till nearly midday. They’ll find the villager and collect the rest of Geralt’s pay, get directions to the nearest city with a Guild of Musicians. Geralt will tell Jaskier about the kikimora, and Jaskier will wash the last specks of blood from Geralt’s hair.

In the evening, Jaskier will finally get a taste of the feast that’s been teasing him for so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Don't forget to go and check out [The Doppler Effect](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22389655/chapters/53492275), which is the first story in this series and is from Geralt's POV.
> 
> As of today (15/02/2021), I've updated this fic to make sure it's still up to standard. You can now find a SPECIAL FUNTIME BONUS CHAPTER from the Doppler's point of view at the end of the initial story, linked above.
> 
> You can also come find me on tumblr! Come and say hello at [A-kind-of-merry-war](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/) <3


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